


Keep it Secret

by Illegible_Scribble



Series: 31 Days of Frodo/Sam, 2018 [4]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (not that Middle-earth has a Santa), Everyone can tell they're in love, Fluff, M/M, Minimal angst about professing crushes, Mutual Pining, Personalities of minor canon characters are mostly made up, Pre-Quest, Secret Santa Gift Swap, Smoochtober 2018, Surprise Kiss, Yule Festivities, except them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-25 09:59:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16195229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illegible_Scribble/pseuds/Illegible_Scribble
Summary: During Hobbiton's first Secret Swap of Yuletide presents, Folco gets stuck with the recipient no one was hoping for, and goes to Frodo for advice. Frodo offers his help, but at a price - one Sam ends up quite surprised by.





	Keep it Secret

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this prompt](https://www.pillowfort.io/posts/132744) for Smoochtober 2018, #4: Super Secret Kiss!

It had been early evening when most of Hobbiton's residents packed into The Ivy Bush, stamping their feet from the cold, and huddling by the fire to warm, calling for hot cider to shake off the chill of the oncoming night.

It was Yule 1, the last night of the year, and suitably there was at least one gift in every hobbit's arms. This year was a particularly special one, as Todd Twofoot (Postmaster of Hobbiton, and Daddy Twofoot's son) had roused the lot of Hobbiton's residents into an experimental gift exchange – a Secret Swap, as he'd called it. At the beginning of Foreyule, he'd gotten together all the hobbits that wanted to participate, written everyone's name down on a slip of paper, and mixed them up in a hat. Each hobbit present had drawn a name from it (if they drew themselves, they had to draw again), and whatever name they picked was the hobbit they had to get a present for by Yule 1.

Today was the day and now was the time at last, and a gentle snow was falling outside the well-lit windows of the inn. Of his family – the whole of it attending, even his Gaffer – Sam was the last one in, ushering forth everyone in front of him and holding open the door for a few hobbits that followed them. He was getting quite a chill by the time he slipped inside, but it was forgotten immediately when he entered the tavern and took a moment to look well around.

There were sprigs of holly and pine, and fir garlands tacked up on and strung between the pillars and rafters; candles were on every table and surrounded by poinsettia blossoms, holly berries and pine cones, and stockings were hung along the mantles. From the kitchen came the most delicious aromas Sam had smelled in a week, from piping hot meat pies, to hot cocoa and frothing hard cider.

He hurried after his family – who had wisely set up the Gaffer in a free rocking chair near a fire – and took orders from them as they sent him off to the bar to get them all something hot.

As he swerved and ducked around the many bustling and already tipsy hobbits, he glanced round, trying to spot a few particular faces. Families – being usually big – were the easiest to locate, and he saw the Cottons had settled not far from the Gamgees, and the Twofoots held a table of some honor in the middle of the room. Around them was a collection of all sorts of hobbits toasting their good ideas and the merriment Todd's plan had brought, their laughter and commendations getting louder by the moment as they called for more cider.

By the time he reached the bar, he was disappointed to have as yet not caught sight of those few sought-after faces. The one he wanted to see most was Frodo, of course, but short of him he wouldn't have minded seeing Fredegar Bolger or Folco Boffin. If they were at hand, Frodo wasn't liable to be much further away.

Sam waited patiently for Emerald Hornblower – who was minding the bar – to have a spare moment between calling back orders to the kitchen and filling more mugs from the taps, before he spoke with her.

When she finally came to him, she offered a cheerful smile, though it hid only a bit of how tired she surely had to be. “Evenin', an' happy Yule to you n' yours, Sam!”

“An' happy Yule t'you an' your kin as well, Emerald!” replied Sam, politely tipping his cap.

“What'll it be, then? Be quick – I'm thinkin' another round'll be called for in just a minute.”

Sam proceeded to list off the requests he'd been given, as fast as he might, though he had to think for a moment about how many ciders and cocoas it had been, exactly. He was fairly certain Marigold had asked for cider, but feeling older-brotherly and responsible, he decided it was cocoa.

Emerald wasted no time in filling all five mugs, and offered him a tray to carry them on to bring them back. “Meat pies an' such'll be brought right to you in a pinch; now mind those mugs for a time, they're hot as a bellows.”

Sam heeded her advice, and carefully chose the path of least hobbit-filled resistance back to his family. They were all quite grateful for their drinks, though Marigold glowered at him when she found hers wasn't cider. Sam gave an embarrassed and apologetic shrug, and later – after the Cottons had come over to mingle – he noticed her stealing a sip from May's mug.

Tolman Sr. and the Gaffer got on splendidly, reminiscing about the year's harvest and what their predictions were for the coming year. Lily – the Cottons' Mrs. - paid equal mind to the conversations of the youngsters as she did her husband and the Gaffer. Frequently, she offered a sample of biting wit to both parties, which Sam could see touched a nerve in Daisy, and caused the whole lot of younger Cottons to flinch and blush.

He spent most of that period talking with Tom and Jolly about how the Cottons' livestock were doing, and their estimations about what their numbers would look like come springtime. Perhaps without due caution, Sam walked into a promise with little Nibs to tell him the story of Old Mr. Bilbo's dragon again, even though Sam insisted Frodo told it better.

Later, it seemed Rosie had been about to say something to him, when a rather squiffy Todd stood up on his table, swinging his mug and holding a clipboard. “My fair ladies and fine gentlehobbits!” he called above the turmoil, which didn't fully quiet until his father slammed an empty mug on the table several times, “My gentleladies and fair hobbits!” Todd repeated, slurring a little and staggering as he waved his mug at his clipboard. “You all know what tonight is!” An affirmative cheer echoed through the tavern. “Yule!” said Todd, met with more cheers. “Yule 1! I think!” and he bent down to consult with his father, who nodded and pushed his son's face affectionately. “Yes, Yule 1, my friends, acquaintances and potential enemies! Yule 1, the day we decided a month ago, we would hold Hobbiton's first Secret Swap of presents! Today is that day, Yule 1, where we will swap our presents!” his smile was drunk but sincere as another chorus of cheers went up around him. “And now- now, today, this evening, Yule 1, right now, we shall swap our presents!

“You all know your giftees, and even if you don't,” Todd sloshed his mug towards the clipboard again, showing it off proudly, “I do! If you don't end up with your present by the time we all ring in the New Year,” Todd stumbled a bit to look at the grandfather clock across the room, “in about, uh- uhm, a bit before the time the big and little hands are on the 12, talk to me and we'll see where your present's gone. If you're on the list.” which he indicated again. “Hafta be on the list to get a present. Probably. Maybe some came with extra freebies. Dunno. Happy swapping!” and to the echoes of more cheers, with the help of three fellows and his father, Todd stumbled down from the table and presumably – hopefully – didn't break anything.

Sam bid the Cottons, his sisters and his father a temporary farewell (in fact, all of the youngsters ended up splitting to go find their giftees), shifting the parcel under his coat into his hands. The name he'd pulled from the hat last month had been Wren Smallburrow, Robin's younger sister. She hadn't yet reached her tweens, and though her mother – who always won the Free Fair's competition for most elaborate needlepoint – tried to keep her head out of the clouds and focused on 'proper' things, it was to little effect. Wren, it seemed, was much more preoccupied with tales from the Wilderlands, and pursued news of the wider world often.

She seemed to like the sounds of the Dwarves of Erebor and Dale best, where Bilbo had gotten a slew of toys made for the youths of his party guests at his 111th birthday party some years ago. She had been a little thing, then, and Sam wondered if her fascination with the Dwarves wasn't because of the toys she and her friends still kept and held in reverence.

Sam had gone to quite an effort to get a Dale-made music box for her, hoping she'd find it suitable. The dwarf trader Frodo had gotten him in contact with was fairly certain it wasn't magic – as Bilbo's gifts had been – but the make of it was nevertheless breathtaking in construct. Not to mention, its tune was what Sam imagined elvish laughter sounded like; enchanted bells chiming, carried in a wind that blew from the West.

He found Robin minding after Wren as she delivered a parcel to Hawthorne Bunce, and Sam greeted the three of them, tilting his cap to each. “Evenin' Robin, Miss Hawthorne an' Miss Wren. T'would seem I drew your name last month, Miss,” he bent down a bit to be nearer eye-level to the younger lass, and offered her the parcel, “an' right enough have come to deliver your gift.”

Wren's eyes lit up and she looked at Sam with delight, offering a gushing stream of thank-yous as she took the present, and bounced up to give Sam a hug. 

She wasted no more time with gratitude after that, however, and in delight tore open the paper wrapping and gasped when she saw what was inside. The box itself was wooden and painted over with golds and reds like fire, and when she opened it, a little dragon figure mounted on a twirling spire met her, as the tune began to play. She stood entranced until the music came to a slow stop, before hugging Sam again and insisting it was perhaps even better than the present Bilbo had given her.

Sam said she was most certainly welcome, and as she hurried off to show her friends, Robin offered him a respectful and grateful nod before following after his sister.

Sam, now feeling all together warm and fuzzy with delight, turned round and supposed he ought to wander back to his father, or at least be near his sisters to give someone looking for a Gamgee an easier time of it. He'd only taken a few steps to who he thought at a distance was Marigold, before he heard his name being called over the din of the tavern.

Turning, he saw a group of hobbits parting as – of all fellows – Folco Bolger came pushing past them, and tottering up to Sam, a parcel in one hand and a mug in the other. He was still calling loudly for Sam until he stood right before him, at which point Folco looked up and down and closed his jaw for a moment. He took a deep breath and another swig from his mug before he straightened and said, “Well met, Sam my lad.”

Sam tipped his cap. “Aye, an' t'you as well, Mister Folco. Enjoyin' the evenin'?”

Folco looked ruefully down at his mug, then the parcel in his hand, before looking back over his shoulder and glaring at something Sam couldn't make out. He then turned back to Sam, and sighed again, this time sounding sad. “I'd ask for harder cider and folks I could better call friends, but what's a hobbit to do?” he shook his head. “I hope your evening's been a bit better, Samwise?”

“I couldn't rightly say,” Sam confessed, tilting his head and trying to make sense of Folco's manner, “but I'm thinkin' maybe so, if you'll pardon me.”

Folco made a move to wave his mug, but stopped short and instead waved the parcel dismissively, shaking his head. “No pardons needed, but you've got them all anyway, my boy. All the same, it's good to hear you're better than I. I expect in a bit you'll be even better than that, or I so very much hope.” he grimaced, looking at the parcel again, before offering it to Sam. “You're my giftee, as it turns out, making me your um- gifter, I suppose.”

Sam had suspected this was why Folco had come up in the first place, and with a smile he graciously took the package. “Thank'ee kindly, Mister Folco!”

Folco flapped his now-empty hand again. “Don't go thanking me yet. That thing,” he nodded at the parcel, “t'is just a book, you know, and one I had a bother of a time getting my hands on.” He looked over his shoulder again and wrinkled his nose, as if considering spitting in that direction, before he turned back, expression mellowing. “I do think you'll like it, or anyway I do hope so.” Sam was grateful for the gift, but felt a bit spoiled that Folco had told him outright what it was.

Folco's face shifted to something a bit contemplative, before it melted into a look of depression, and he set his mug down on a nearby chair. Then, he seemingly screwed himself up, squaring his shoulders and puffing out his chest. “But I'm afraid that's not quite all I've for you – not that it's me exactly, mind, more it's from someone else and I'm passing it along.” his apparent determination wavered as his eyes fell and he began to chew his lip. “I am terribly sorry for this, my boy, but please mind I'm not to blame.

“Funny,” he said, looking back up at Sam, “I'm not certain if I'm more sorry for you or me. Anyway- this – is not from me – it's from- eh, bother!- a secret admirer,” and in a rush, Folco's hands were behind Sam's head, pulling him down into a kiss.

Sam felt a rug had just been pulled from under his feet and he'd landed with a crack on his tailbone. His mouth stung from the force of impact, his face was scarlet to the ears, and he stared stupidly at Folco's screwed up face as he held the kiss for several very, painfully slow seconds. Sam felt consciously aware of the sudden slowness of the second hand on the grandfather clock, and could see every face around them turning in surprise to watch. Sam, had he not been so thoroughly bewildered, would've been more than content to vanish on the spot, like Bilbo could among spiders or dragons.

At last Folco pushed him away, spitting and sputtering as he frantically wiped at his mouth with his sleeve. In the midst of it he spared a hand to smack Sam on the shoulder, saying, “Happy Yule, my lad! I think that was worse for you than me, though I'm sure your admirer delighted in it immensely!”

Sam, simultaneously, horribly aware of, yet oblivious to, the many pairs of eyes staring at him and Folco, let his gaze wander over the room, when of a sudden it fell on one corner near the fire.

There was Frodo, sitting in a rocking chair with a group of fascinated little ones at his feet, listening enraptured to whatever tale he was telling. Or, at least, Sam assumed they were. Because, at that moment, Frodo was saying nothing, and looking right at Sam, just setting down his mug and smiling with a chocolaty mustache.

 

–

 

The month before this very bewildering night for Sam, poor Folco Boffin had had a very rough afternoon. Of all the names he could've pulled from that blasted Secret Swap hat, it had been the one not a soul in Hobbiton had been hoping to pull: Samwise Gamgee.

“And whyever is that?” Frodo had asked, sounding somewhat offended as he poured tea for Folco in Bag End the following day.

“Blast it, Frodo,” said Folco, grumbling as he stirred more sugar and cream than usual into his tea, “you live under a Hill, not a rock, and for bloody sake he's your gardener!”

Frodo's eyes were narrow as he took a sip from his own teacup. “That provides precisely no answer, Folco.”

“Because I haven't well gotten to it,” said Folco, “so here it is: he's not your run-of-the-mill hobbit by any normal folk's standard, you know.”

“No, I don't.”

Folco rolled his eyes, taking a great gulp of his tea. “He spends whatever time he's not in a garden talking with you, or with his nose in a book, reciting rhymes about elves and the Sea and a host of other things like that.” Folco set down his cup and replaced it with a biscuit, lavishing it with jelly. “As a gardener alone he's perfectly normal, no different from his father or the Cottons, or any other farming family from here to Bywater.

“And that's just the start of the trouble,” Folco went on, doing his best not to lose his confidence under Frodo's chilly gaze, “because that's precisely the problem with most every hobbit about; there's quite nearly _too many_ gardeners and farmers and what-have-yous. They like their plants and seeds and tools and their livestock, so it ought to be easy to pick something out for them, hmm?” Frodo, deadpan, raised an eyebrow. “Well, you'd be wrong, Frodo, because that's what every one of them is expecting, and what everyone first thinks to give them.”

“Which is why you get to know them beyond their occupation.” Frodo pointed out, coldly.

“Easily done,” said Folco, trying to ignore him, “or it ought to be, if they're simple enough, such as fancying cross-stitch or playing cricket. But Sam Gamgee?

“Frodo, for the past two months before this silly draw, Hobbiton's been giggling that whoever pulls his name will have to bring him not a thing short of a live Elf to please him. He's just – if you'll pardon my saying – a fine lad, but right queer with his hobbies. T'isn't all of us in Hobbiton that have Elf or Dwarf friends to call on to get him a poetry book or an Arca-rock or whatever it is.”

“Arkenstone.” Frodo corrected.

“Yes- that. What I mean to say most plainly, Frodo, is half the lad is nearly just the same to most hobbits in Hobbiton. But that other half is one with fancies so abnormal, getting something to please that part of him is outside the expertise of almost all of us. In point of fact,” Folco reached for another biscuit, hurrying and pointedly avoiding Frodo's gaze, “we'd all been wishing against the odds _you'd_ pull his name.”

Even in spite of how predictable that hope could've been, Frodo still started. “ _Me?_ Whatever for?”

Folco felt confident enough again to grumble. “Near enough you're one of his dearest friends as we can all tell, not to mention you've been the one feeding him old Bilbo's fairy-stories for years.

“And really Frodo, despite what I said before, maybe you _do_ live under a rock, but one beneath the Hill at that: Sam's been mooning over you like a hobbit over for mushrooms for years now.”

Frodo stared, but no trace of chill was left in his eyes. “Pardon.”

Folco choked a chuckle into his napkin. “He sings your praises at the tavern most every night, and more than once has sent Ted Sandyman running for his mummy whenever he begins to rag on the Hill's 'Mad Baggins'.

“He's always going on about how fascinated he is by your speaking Elvish and all the different things you know from your books, and one night when he was near to drunk, Jolly Cotton asked him who had the prettiest eyes in Hobbiton – hoping Sam would answer his sister Rose, of course.

“In an act of wit the old Ivy had never before seen, Sam looked at Jolly if that were a question a hobbit even needed to ask, and said incredulously to match, “Why, Mister Frodo, of course.”

“The tavern had a good laugh about that, but poor Sam's wits were swimming too much for him to understand why – as a fact I think he nearly cried that no one else's first thought seemed to be you.”

Frodo had some time ago stopped scrutinizing Folco, and was staring blankly at the middle of the table. Folco shifted and cleared his throat before finishing his tea. “And that's why we'd all been wishing you'd pull his name, to give him a right good-- ehm, kiss, you see. Pains us all to see a grown lad mooning unrequited, or at the least thinking it's unrequited.” Folco discreetly raised an eyebrow at Frodo. “After all, there've been jokes about you for years in Hobbiton about what an icebox the Hill must be, or that you've your eye on someone you just can't have.”

Met with only silence as an answer, Folco fumbled with his cravat, trying to loosen the sudden tightness it seemed to have. “Seeing as I've gotten myself this far into a hole, would you mind a try at helping me out of it? … If there is anyone, is it Sam that has your eye?”

For a very long while – so long Folco felt his embarrassment was about to burn him to ashes – Frodo said absolutely nothing, and only looked at the table. At a great length, not shifting his gaze, he spoke. “I have thought about him, yes. Quite a lot.”

Folco figuratively melted in his seat. “You've no notion of how relieved I am to hear that.”

Frodo's brows furrowed, but he gave no further answer to Folco's comment. He thought for a time longer, before saying, “So, unless you've come for more secrets to spill – and if you should spill them, I shall ask Gandalf to turn you into a toad next he's here – why come to this ultimate point?”

Folco's fingers twisted themselves into knots as he toyed with his napkin. “Well, I suppose it all got away from me there. First I'd meant only to express my botherance at what a tough time Sam offers to get a gift for, then you asked _why_ I was so bothered, and so I said.

“Really, most of Hobbiton- and... I, thought you knew Sam kisses the earth you've tread. I'm sorry if my saying that's brought on something terribly unpleasant for you.” Folco fumbled again with his cravat, and dabbed at his perspiring forehead with his wrinkled napkin. “Blast, if only you _had_ pulled his name. I'd wanted, really, to ask your advice, Frodo, as you've known him so long, seemingly so well, and look so fond of him. I've not the faintest what to get him.”

Folco was treated to another bout of silence as gears turned unseen in Frodo's head. “Well, Folco. Can you assess the value of those wishes held by you and yours, that I _had_ pulled Sam's name, and answered his mooning? Mind the debt I estimate _you_ owe _me_ , for being such a thoroughly unpleasant guest today, and giving such secrets that weren't yours to give.”

Folco considered, hoping this wasn't really going down the path he was suspecting it would. “I... I would happily trade names with you?”

Frodo looked at him as a gambler does, when they've just caught another player's bluff. “Do you not recall Todd's list and his rules? No swapping? And not revealing names before the Swap? Ring a bell, perhaps?”

Folco, defeated, bent over the table and sighed. “Guilty as charged.”

“What is my absolution of your conscience worth, along with a recommended gift, if what you said of Sam's feelings is true?”

“You'll rat me out to Todd if I don't agree to your contract, won't you?”

“That's the most observant and tactful you've been today, Folco.”

“And so I surrender, Master Baggins. Name your terms.”

 

–

 

It was thus that Folco, on the night of Yule 1, found himself sitting across from Frodo in The Ivy Bush, indulging in generous amounts of liquid courage while Frodo cooly sipped his cocoa. “Burglar indeed,” Folco grumbled, “you've robbed me blind of all pleasure tonight, Frodo.”

“No,” said Frodo, not looking up from the book he was reading, “these, my dear Folco, are the consequences of your actions. Take your lumps like a grown lad, hmm? And don't forget our contract.” Frodo had even written one up and made Folco sign it, which he had done it begrudgingly, though knowing Frodo did it with clever purpose: to offer as evidence to Todd, if Folco didn't go through with their agreement.

“You'll get yours, I do believe, Frodo.” grouched Folco into his mug.

“Oh,” Frodo looked up with a dreamy smile, “if you weren't blustering nonsense about Sam, then I'm sure I will. And I shall take it with delight.”

By then Todd had staggered up to the table and announced the terms of the swap, and Frodo offered Folco a final, sadistic smirk, accompanied by, “Good luck.” as they parted ways to deliver their gifts.

After delivering his, Folco ordered himself an entire pint of cider, and found Fatty Bolger to hide with in a corner until they rang in the New Year. “Sounds like you put on quite the titillating act,” Fatty chirped into his cocoa, “I could hear the gasps across the room.”

“Fatty, from my cider and your twittering, my hangover tomorrow shall be dreadful. Spare me what you could, please?”

“Frodo played you as a fiddle, my friend.” said Fatty, patting Folco's shoulder. “Or rather, a washtub drum, I think.”

“All of you are insufferable.”

“You've chosen a group perfectly like yourself.”

 

–

 

Folco developed a headache that reached a fever pitch long before midnight, and anyone that came to talk to him about the kissing incident was kindly waved off by Fatty. “You see, Folco's dreadful at taking his liquor – see the compress on his head, now? He's being a valiant chap and sticking it out until midnight – in spite of his misadventures – but he's quite done with his capering for tonight. Try again tomorrow, perhaps!”

As much as Folco wanted to more pointedly object to Fatty's verbal lashings, he could only manage a groan.

Sam was all together too dumbfounded to answer anyone's questions. The best he could offer was, “I'm thinkin' mayhap Mister Folco's not feeling well.” which most affirmed for themselves when they went to see Folco.

After a short time, even his sisters stopped bothering him, and instead whispered between each other, and even sent Marigold off to pester Folco, while Daisy and May kept sneaking glances between Frodo and Rosie. The one person that didn't all together leave him alone was his Gaffer, who glared at him with disapproval for the greater part of the night thereafter.

About a quarter to midnight, a very drunk Todd sat down with the few hobbits that claimed they were bereft of rightful gifts, and thanks to Todd's inebriation, it was his father that ended up sorting the them out.

Afterwards, the welcoming of the New Year passed rather in a blur for Sam; he could recall a great deal of cheering, toasts and bell-ringing as the clock struck 12, and a band started up a joyous tune, but he remained sitting in shock with his family, holding the still-wrapped gift in his lap.

The more sensible and sober families began to wander out about a half hour later, the Gamgees included. (The less sensible and sober either stayed the night or didn't stagger out until 4 or so.)

Upon returning to Number 3, the Gamgees bid one another an exhausted goodnight, and Sam was asleep the moment he fell into bed, and he dreamed of nothing.

 

–

 

The following morning was late for everyone, but otherwise it was almost as if nothing had happened. They had a large breakfast to celebrate the New Year at a sane hour, and spent the rest of it on small chores and talking idly with one another, until early evening. Sam's sisters had all promised they'd go out with friends and be back by a sensible hour, while Sam had a long-standing promise to sup with Frodo that night. Sam worried the Gaffer was going to find himself in a lonely smial while everyone else was gone, but to Sam's surprise he announced – rather pleased – that Widow Rumble had invited him to dinner.

Reassured, then, as the sun sank below the horizon, Sam ducked out and began the journey up the lane, a gnawing worry growing in his mind as he made his way up to Bag End's front step. Frodo had always offered a listening ear and a strong shoulder to whatever Sam wanted to speak of, but last night's kissing event had befuddled Sam beyond words. There were some words and wishes he voiced in his own head, but dared not speak aloud.

He paused just before he knocked on the door, trying to think of what he was going to say at any point during dinner, before he decided that thinking would bring no help. He knocked thrice, more softly than he'd meant, but a few moments later Bag End's green door creaked open, and Frodo welcomed him inside, taking his coat as he stepped in.

A fire was roaring in the parlor's hearth, and the smell of a roasting chicken wafted out of the kitchen. As Frodo guided him to the dining room, Sam caught sight of a chocolate cake freshly iced on the counter, and Frodo playfully pushed him further along, insisting he would spoil things more if he stared much longer.

After Sam had been seated at the table (which already had many dishes laid out), Frodo disappeared into the kitchen for a few minutes, before returning with the whole roast chicken. With extreme care and Sam's help he set it down, before seating himself across from Sam.

They toasted the New Year, one another, along with old Bilbo and their families, before wishing prosperity to all. With relative formality they served themselves, only speaking when asking for something to be passed, until they began to tuck in, at which point they began to chatter.

For a short while it was only about Sam's family and how they'd held up after last night's festivities, until Frodo quite casually said, “That was rather a stunt Folco pulled – I wonder what ever came over him. He didn't hurt you, did he?”

“Nay,” Sam shook his head, sipping wine – which was a welcome change from all the cider of last night, “just offered me a right surprise is all. Certainly weren't expectin' it, mark me.”

“I should hardly think so.” Frodo nodded sympathetically. “Random kisses certainly aren't what one should expect as a Yule gift. Did he even offer any explanation?”

Sam slowed his chewing and leaned in his chair, thinking, trying to recall the cider-muzzied and lengthy night. “Well- he... He did say it weren't precisely from himself. That is, I think, it weren't _his_ kiss to me, if you understand.”

“Oh?” Frodo tilted his head and raised his eyebrows, looking thoroughly curious. “How queer. Did he say whose it was?”

“I think he were actin' on behalf of another-” said Sam, rather repeating himself as a blush rose to his cheeks, “-ehm, t'is silly, but- well.”

“Do go on.” prompted Frodo.

“Well, methinks he said sommat about a secret admirer, which is right silly if you ask me.” Sam said quickly. “Sam Gamgee wi' a secret admirer? T'is a taller tale than folks say Mister Bilbo's were, in my mind.”

Frodo, observing the empty state of both their plates, remained quiet and thoughtful for a time. “Well, I don't think so.” he looked up at Sam, appearing nonchalant, but perhaps hiding something more. “I do think you're an excellent fellow, Sam. I should be surprised if half the lasses in Hobbiton didn't fancy you.”

Sam was now thoroughly scarlet. “Ah, well- that's right kind of you to say, Frodo- thank'ee. I'm not of a mind t'think it meself, but t'is pleasant all the same.”

“Well, I still think at least one person must be a secret admirer of yours,” said Frodo, leaning forward to offer his deductive reasoning, “after all, I shouldn't believe Folco would do such a thing without good cause. He's quite prideful and doesn't act a fool unless the circumstances are exceptionally particular.”

Sam rubbed his chin, thinking. “You knowin' Mister Folco better than me, I'd think you're right. But- then that leaves the question o' who? T'be such an' admirer, an' then get Mister Folco to do it?”

Frodo interlaced his fingers and rested his nose against them. “It is quite the puzzle, isn't it? Difficult for me to figure, even knowing Folco. I should think the admirer might have something on him to persuade him to do it, but what, I couldn't say.”

Though the part of him that enjoyed watching his own suffering was indeed reveling in this, Frodo was beginning to crack under this game. There was a feeling of genius delight that he could pull strings so and play this game at all, but at the same time, he felt ready to break and ask plainly, 'Sam, do you really fancy me, or is Folco full of rubbish?'. As dearly as he wanted to pose the question outright, he felt a drive to offer Sam a suggestion that did not yet reveal all he knew. “You don't suppose it was – and I suppose would still be – Rose Cotton?”

Sam stared at Frodo, any receding blush returning in full. “Rosie? I- well.” he fell quiet. “I... Mayhap? But... bless, that would be odd. Mister Folco's more o' the gentry sort, an' Rosie doin' it? Would be... odd...”

Without a word, Frodo excused himself to go retrieve dessert (and possibly have a meltdown) as Sam contemplated the concept.

Sam, left contemplating, turned the thought over in his mind. The notion of Rosie fancying him to such a point was puzzling (though not impossible), and almost made him feel guilty. He thought Frodo was the finest creature to ever walk Middle-earth, and of a sudden he felt the impulse to go apologize to any hobbit that might fancy him so, not knowing he was already so taken with someone else.

It wasn't that he disliked Rosie – in fact he did think her clever and sweet – but comparing her to Frodo was like comparing a candle to the Sun. He'd known Rosie since he was a lad, and at times played with her alongside her brothers, but... Since he could remember, Frodo had been an unending source of wonder and beauty somehow even greater than Bilbo and his tales of dragon treasure. As he'd grown, somehow Sam's admiration for Frodo's fantastic mind and elvish beauty had shifted into affection that would seek tender touches and kisses, were Sam not so shy (and of the working class, besides).

Though he was fond of Rosie as a friend, and the sister of his dearer friends, he terribly hoped it wasn't her. The last thing he wanted was to hurt her with his feelings – which weren't of like to hers – especially if she had gone to so much trouble to express how she felt.

… In fact, Sam began to realize, the trouble surrounding the event was quite... troublesome. As Frodo had said, Folco was prideful, and Sam suspected he wasn't someone Rosie was liable to bring into such a conspiracy – one of her brothers would be much more likely.

But... then, what hobbit persuaded Folco to do it? Sam didn't know Folco's circle of friends terribly well enough to think any of them would fancy a daft gardener, nor which would be able to pull Folco's strings so.

As Frodo returned, coming to Sam's side and presenting the cake, Sam found himself in a tumbling loop of guesses that seemed to be spinning him in the direction his head thought impossible and his heart sang at.

“I must say,” said Frodo, “I would offer my finest salute to Miss Cotton if it was her hand that got Folco to act so.” Sam offered a noncommittal noise from his throat, while Frodo paused. “After all, Sam,” he struggled to keep his voice from breaking as he made to cut the cake, “wouldn't you like it if it were Rose?”

There was a still, silent moment.“In point of fact,” Sam's voice was hoarse, “no.”

Frodo, without noticing it, had paused his cut before the knife had even touched the cake. “Ah.” was all he could think to say, his wits deserting him and rendering him unable to make a guess at what could possibly come next.

“'Cause, while there is a hobbit I've been admirin' near since I knew what it meant for sommat to be beautiful – an' mayhap even afore – it ain't her.” Frodo was utterly still. “As you said, it would take sommat awful much to make Mister Folco act so, an' seein' as he's gentry, an' Rosie, well... the Cottons all work most with their hands, if you get my meanin'. She ain't the sort to go askin' his lot to do sommat so grand.

“An' I don't rightly know those that know best how to pull his strings, like, nor how they might fancy an' old fool like Sam Gamgee. But that old fool does know who _he_ fancies, though like as not he oughtn't.”

Frodo's voice was so soft, it was barely a whisper as he set down the knife. “And who is that?”

“I'm hopin',” said Sam, gently placing his hand on Frodo's wrist, “it's the same hobbit as made Mister Folco kiss me las' night. An',” Sam swallowed, his throat going dry, “I'm hopin' if that hobbit's all the same, he might kiss me again himself.”

It was first Frodo's eyes that shifted to Sam, before he turned to face him all the way. “I believe I can fetch him, Sam.” said Frodo, quietly and at length. “But you must close your eyes. He's very shy, and wants it a secret, still.”

“Fair enough,” whispered Sam, shaking as he closed his eyes. Within a breath, another mouth met his, in the sweetest and gentlest kiss he had ever received.

The kiss was static for a moment, before he felt a hand on his cheek, and his kisser tilted his head a little, prompting Sam to tentatively open his mouth. There was a pause, before he felt the ghost of a tongue brush his lower lip, and Sam mirrored the movement in reply, bringing his hands to either side of his partner's head. By then, any restraint disappeared, and the kiss shifted from gentle to impassioned, and the both of them licked and nipped and sucked one another's lips and tongues as if they were starved of touch and would fail without it.

They could only kiss for so long, however, before they parted for air, breathing heavily and resting their foreheads together. Opening his eyes, Sam's gaze was met by one of the truest blue, looking at him searchingly. With tentative but complete affection, Sam brushed an ebony lock behind his partner's ear, and nuzzled him to calm.

“You will keep it a secret, won't you, Sam?” asked Frodo, closing his eyes and nuzzling Sam in turn.

“Aye, as long as you want it.” and Sam kissed him again.


End file.
